


Just a Little Bit Spicy

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-12
Updated: 2007-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-12 04:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13539888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Mark and Bridget are smart people. They have been tested for STDs, are clean, and Bridget's on the pill. See? Very smart indeed. (There are additional notes at the end so as not to spoil story.)





	Just a Little Bit Spicy

**Author's Note:**

> Mark and Bridget are smart people. They have been tested for STDs, are clean, and Bridget's on the pill. See? Very smart indeed. (There are additional notes at the end so as not to spoil story.)

_Weds 14 Feb_

Six weeks, five days, and seven and a half hours. 

Not that Bridget was counting or anything.

Already smiling, she pushed back the sheets as she popped out of bed. It was Valentine's Day, the first one in years with not only a boyfriend, but a _nice_ boyfriend. Even though he had not been able to stay over the previous night because of work—a little disappointing because it would have been completely fantastic to wake up to a Valentine's morning shag—she could not wipe the smile off of her face as she brushed her hair, did her makeup and got dressed.

It was wholly appropriate to wear the red jumper along with the short black skirt that day. She pulled her heart pendant out from under the collar, then slipped into her coat and walked over the bridge to work.

She admitted to herself a certain level of disappointment when she arrived at her desk in the office to find it looking precisely as it had the day before. She'd been hoping for maybe a little heart-shaped box of candy, or some flowers, but… there was nothing. Ah well, she told herself. It was still early in the day yet. 

………

When she arrived back at her desk after a smoke break later that morning and still had not received anything, she felt almost resentful, especially since there was a huge bouquet of white roses now gracing Patchouli's reception desk. What good was Valentine's with a nice boyfriend if—? 

_No_ , she scolded herself. The day was but a meaningless holiday invented by greeting card companies. What was important was to have the nice boyfriend, not to focus on trifling tokens of affection purchased solely due to commercial pressure.

Still… she _really_ wanted to one-up Patchouli, who Bridget was confident still thought Mark was a figment of Bridget's imagination, regardless of the fact that Bridget had his picture right there on her desk.

Her desk phone rang, startling her from her thoughts. "This is Bridget Jones," she said, assuming her professional, journalistic voice.

The connection was very bad, crackling and whining in her ear. "Bridget. It's Mark."

She was not able to keep the smile from her face. "Happy Valentine's Day, Mar—"

"Bridget? Are you there?" he interrupted, a little more loudly, making her jump in her seat.

"Mark!" she said again, exasperated. "Yes, I'm here—"

He interrupted again, "Bridget, if you're there, I can't hear you. I just wanted to let you know I'm stuck in Manchester. I'll try to be—"

The call was cut short. When she tried to ring him back she could only get the message that he was not available. Bollocks!

A few minutes later her phone rang again, and her heart leapt into her throat. Forgetting for a moment where she was, she answered, "Hello?" There was silence before she remembered to add, in a less desperate tone: "This is Bridget Jones."

"Thought I had the wrong number there for a sec. So, Bridge, tell those of us living vicariously through you: what'd you get for Valentine's?" It was Shazzer, and from the sound of it she was practically bouncing in her seat.

"Um," she began. "You see—"

"Nothing? _Nothing?_ " Shaz interrupted indignantly, guessing correctly. "That's complete crap!"

"He's stuck in Manchester," Bridget offered in a pathetic tone.

"Does that man not understand the dating world?" she ranted. "You don't sleep with someone for a month—"

"Six weeks," corrected Bridget, only mentally adding the days and hours to the tally.

"Even worse!" she interjected. "You don't sleep with someone for _six weeks_ and completely blow them off on Valentine's! Get out now!"

She sighed. "Shazzer. You aren't helping."

She heard Shazzer collecting her breath. "Sorry, Bridge," she said. "Force of habit."

"It's okay."

"Hey. Do you have lunch plans?"

"No."

"Want to meet at Café Rouge?"

"Sure," she said resignedly.

………

When she returned from lunch, her hopes were dashed: still nothing. She felt like she had a dark cloud hanging over her head like the love pariah she rationally knew she was not.

"So, Bridget, that lawyer of yours doesn't believe in Valentine's Day?"

Richard Finch. She reigned in the urge to bean him.

"Of course he does," she said, rather unconvincingly. "He would rather spend his money on more meaningful things, not chocolates that would just make me fat or flowers that just die. We have something lovely planned for later."

Finch blew air through his teeth, almost as if he knew she was fibbing. "Yeah, right."

Patchouli gave her a look that clearly meant she agreed with Finch's words, solidifying her disbelief in Mark's very existence.

She really hoped Mark would come through and make it up to her.

………

Full-on depression set in at four forty-five. Perhaps Mark had simply forgotten, though in all honestly a man would have to live under a rock to miss the hints and reminders. Or, like Finch had said, maybe he didn't believe in celebrating it—which would be very sad and gloomy all around; they hadn't actually planned anything, after all. Maybe that should have been her clue. Bridget sighed, and realised she might as well set off for home—as she had spent the better part of the last hour sitting at her desk staring at the clock in the corner of the computer screen without really seeing it—before she read more into the lack of Valentine's attention than was good for her ego and their relatively new relationship. She began to put her things into her bag when her favourite pen fell and skittered under the desk. She bent to retrieve it.

She saw the toes of a pair of very expensive men's shoes appear by her side. Simultaneously a voice from above said, "Bridget."

She sat up so quickly she very nearly hit her head on the underside of her desk. Standing there was what appeared to be a very large bouquet of roses atop a pair of legs. The flowers moved to one side and to her great delight it was Mark. A grin overtook her features as their eyes met. He smiled sheepishly.

"I hope you didn't think I forgot," he said as he set them down.

From the other side of the room she caught Finch raising an eyebrow, undoubtedly at the flowers she'd so vehemently insisted he didn't feel the need to buy. She also spotted Patchouli standing near her desk in slack-jawed wonder.

"I just intended on bringing these to you a lot sooner," he explained.

Forgetting for the moment that she had (well, not seriously) considered hurling herself off of the top of the building only minutes before, she serenely said, "It's all right." She stood, and, not caring that she was at work, she embraced and kissed him quickly on the lips. He returned the embrace. "They're lovely, Mark. Thank you."

"I know it's just a crassly contrived commercial holiday," he murmured close to her ear, "but their propaganda worked on me for the first time in many years." She pulled back to see a smirk playing upon his lips. "Come on. Let's go have dinner."

"But I'm not dressed for dinner," she said, taking in his always-elegant suit.

"We can stop by your place first," he said, taking her hand.

As they left, Patchouli still had not said a word. Smug did not begin to describe how Bridget felt.

………

Bridget had decided to bring half of the roses home to admire and leave half at work. Fortunately Mark had his car for easier transport. She immediately headed for the kitchen for something appropriate to put the flowers in, and was arranging them when Mark swept up to her, embracing her from behind around the waist.

She placed her hands atop his forearms and leaned back into his embrace. "Where are we having dinner?"

"It's a surprise," he said, placing a kiss upon the top of her ear.

"Oooh," she said, letting her head fall back onto his shoulder. "Goody. I love surprises."

"I know," he said as he bent to kiss the side of her neck, his hands moving from her waist to slide down past her hips and onto her thighs, playing with the bottom edge of her black miniskirt. She closed her eyes, felt her knees weaken; she never would have guessed in a million years before truly knowing him that he would be so masterful at turning her into a complete puddle.

But then he stopped, stood up straight, and released her, clearing his throat. "Why don't you go find something nice to put on?" he asked, the husky quality of his voice belying his true desire.

She nodded. "How posh are we talking here?"

"Five-star," he offered, almost embarrassedly.

Her jaw dropped, and she was suddenly thrust into instant panic mode. Her closet was a virtual wasteland, and he'd already seen her in the classiest dress she owned at the book launch. If she'd had time to prepare, she could have turned to Jude for assistance in the form of a loaner dress, but this, completely out of the blue—

"Of course," Mark continued, undoubtedly at seeing the look of utter alarm on her face, "there is something to be said for Indian takeaway in front of the fire." He said nothing more; the choice was left to her. Plainly he was not invested in the five-star restaurant. For all of his money and status, he really was the most unassuming of men.

She combed her hair back with her fingers. "Well, I don't know. I kind of like the thought of being at a fancy restaurant with you." His expression did not change. "Then again, I couldn't do _this_ at a five-star restaurant." She came close and kissed him deeply, grabbing his backside with both hands and pressing him close to her.

When she pulled away, he managed unsteadily, "Chicken curry?"

She nodded. "Just a little bit spicy. With extra naan," she said. "And some mango lassi." She reached up and nipped at his lower lip playfully, then smiled.

It was only due to the incredible level of reserve he possessed that he was able to step away, slip his coat back on, and leave for the Indian takeaway restaurant with nary a word.

After a moment of utterly adolescent glee—fist-punching, foot-stomping, head-waggling, toothy-grinned glee—she tidied up the living room, arranged the pillows on the faux fur rug in front of the fireplace, and decided to wash up quickly in the shower. It was while she was under the tap that she realised she had no idea what had become of the presents she had picked up for him.

She dried her hair, put a smattering of makeup back on, dabbed a little perfume behind her ears and dressed in a cream-coloured silk nightie and peignoir awaiting his return. She lit some candles, turned down the lights and started the fireplace as she once again remembered the missing gifts. She tore apart her closet and with a great amount of relief located the missing items in her holdall. She had only to wrap them and she'd be home free.

She put the gifts together in one box, and was in the middle of sellotaping the paper down when the phone rang. She was tempted to let it go to the answerphone but thought it might be Mark ringing. "Yes?" she asked, cradling the phone beneath her chin as she finished with the tape.

"Bridge!" It was Shaz again. "Vicarious life update required. Ever hear from Mark?"

"Yes," she said dreamily. "He showed up at the office with an armful of roses."

"That's sweet," Shaz said, then chuckled. "Now I don't have to kick him in the groin for you."

" _Definitely_ not. He's coming back with dinner soon," Bridget said. "I'm getting the flat ready. Can I call you later?"

Shaz was silent. "He's not taking you out?"

"We decided to… stay in instead."

"Ahhh," she said, clearly comprehending. "Well. Far be it from me…" She trailed off playfully, adding, "Talk to you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Bridge, be real. You won't get a chance to call me later."

As she replaced the receiver, she realised Shaz was absolutely right—at least if she had anything to say about it. She smiled wickedly.

As she set the gift down on the table by the sofa, the entryphone rang. Hurrah! Mark and dinner!

"Mark?"

"Yes, Bridget."

She pressed the buzzer, then went to wait for him on the sofa.

"I'm sorry I was gone so long… the queue went on for ages—" He was divesting himself of his coat as he strode in transferring the takeaway from one hand to another, but stopped altogether (in movement and in speech) when he caught sight of her—and didn't seem to possess the ability to talk anymore.

"That's okay. It gave me time to freshen up." She rose from the sofa and came near to him, relieving him of the plastic carrier bags with the takeaway containers in it, setting them down on the kitchen counter.

"You look beautiful," he said at last, as if his brain had finally jumpstarted.

She turned to face him with a smile and came back into the living room; she felt herself blush a little bit. "Thank you."

He reached forward and took her hand, pulling her to him. He embraced her, burying his nose in the hair at her temple, running his hand down the back of her head, along her spine, and settling on her rear, cupping gently. "You smell _bloody_ fantastic," he said quietly into her ear before he started kissing then nibbling at her earlobe.

Her eyes fluttered closed. Thinking disconnectedly of the cooling food on the counter, she said, "What about dinner?"

"Dinner can fucking wait," he said in a low growl, claiming her mouth with his own as his fingers expertly flicked the silk peignoir down over her shoulders. She allowed it to fall to the floor. His hands slid down to raise the hem of the short nightie and he traced his fingers along her bare bottom.

She reached around behind herself and grabbed his hands, pulling away from him. He looked slightly confused before he realised she was pulling him towards the lovely little nest of pillows she'd created by the fire. He pulled the nightie up over her head and made to take her into his arms again but she held up her hand, then reached for his clothing, of which there was decidedly too much.

She took her time undoing his tie and shirt, slipping his shirt over his shoulders. She could see the exasperation written in the lines of his face. It was when she undid the button at his waist with torturously slow fingers (not really on purpose; the buttonhole was a touch too small and she couldn't make the button go through) that his patience wore thin and he reached for and undid his own trousers, pushed both them and his boxers over his hips, stepped out of them, and pulled her down to the floor with him.

She laid back on the soft mound in anticipation of him lying beside her. Instead he took a position between her knees—which didn't hurt her feelings one bit; he looked rather attractive highlighted by the amber firelight—but for a long moment he simply knelt there and gazed at her. She was about to ask him if something was wrong when he moved again and reached to stroke her knee delicately. He bent forward and hovered over her to kiss her, pressing himself against her, but quickly, surprisingly, he moved his attention to her jaw, her throat and her collarbone, continuing to plant a line of kisses down between her breasts, pausing momentarily to gently draw his teeth over the raised peaks of her nipples (causing her to reflexively arch upwards) before continuing the trail of kisses.

She wove her fingers into the rug and gasped as she felt his hands on her hips, then felt his bluntly-cut fingernails raking the hypersensitive skin of her inner thighs ( _ohh,_ she thought); felt his open-mouthed kisses continuing upon her navel and lower abdomen ( _oh my God_ ); felt him grazing her hipbone with his teeth ( _he isn't_ ); felt the velvet of his tongue moving along the crease of her leg ( _he_ is)…

She nearly stopped breathing after that.

He took hardly any time at all bringing her to climax—not surprising, considering this was the very last thing she ever expected him to do, the most arousing, stimulating thing he had ever done to her, which was saying quite a lot. She moaned his name as wave after wave of pleasure overtook her. As those waves subsided, she felt him shift himself forward into place over her again, then drive into her with a forceful thrust in search of his own release, which she was more than willing to help him find.

Ohhh, she told herself as he placed his lips upon her neck to stifle his cries as he came, he'd made it up to her, all right; it was the best Valentine's Day _ever_.

………

As she returned to reality, she quipped in the most gratified of voices, "You _definitely_ couldn't have done _that_ at the five-star restaurant."

He replied quietly, "Clearly, staying in was the way to go." He slowly raised himself up from where he'd come to rest beside her, underscoring his point by placing a tender kiss just above her breast, then raised his face to look at her.

She smiled, meeting his eyes. "I enjoyed that very much."

"I was hoping you would." His eyes veritably twinkled.

"You could have let me reciprocate," she said, stroking his cheek.

"The night is still young," he said in a low tone, as he crawled up to plant a kiss on her lips. "I beg you though: not immediately after our curry dinner."

She chuckled, then sighed; as he caressed her hip, her lids drooped. "Oh. I have something for you," she added, as if suddenly remembering the wrapped gifts on the table.

"I have something else for you too. Though it's almost too late at this point."

She queried him with her eyes only. He kissed her again and rose to pad over to the chair where he had first dropped his coat, grabbing a small bag she hadn't previously noticed and bringing it back to her. "Sorry I didn't have a chance to properly wrap it."

She sat up as he took a pillow beside her. "In this case I'm willing to make an exception. I'm certainly in no position to stand on ceremony. In fact," she added with a devilish grin, "I don't think I could stand at all right now." She opened the bag and pulled out a very lovely, elegant pair of panties and a light, lacy camisole to match, both champagne-coloured as best she could tell in the firelight. She smirked. "It's never too late for something like this," she remarked. "I'll save it for after dinner."

He smirked then indicated the bag again. "Keep going."

Confused, she reached in once more and found, amidst the tissue paper at the bottom, a compilation CD of classical music under the title of "The Romantics", a red rose prominently featured upon its cover. She didn't know any of the songs on sight as she perused the back cover, but with a title like that he could hardly go wrong. She grinned as she met his eyes. "Fantastic. Love it all." He smiled proudly. With great effort (as voluntary muscle control was still a challenge) she reached forward to kiss him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, darling."

"Could I trouble you to put on the CD?"

"No trouble at all." 

As he rose yet again, she dropped back onto the pillows. "If you want to get your own gifts while you're up, they're there on the table." She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the fire suffuse her cooling skin.

"Darling."

She opened her eyes at the sound of his voice and the gentle touch of his fingers along her hairline. She was suddenly embarrassed for drifting asleep, especially when she saw he'd brought over not only his gifts, but their dinner, warmed in the microwave and served on dinner plates, the mango lassi in tall tumblers. She also heard what she supposed was the soft cello of the CD he'd brought emanating from her stereo speakers.

As she pushed herself to sit up, she yawned, adding insult to injury. "Oh God, I'm so sorry," she said, covering her mouth. "Thank you." He'd also brought a blanket, and covered them both with it.

"No need to apologise," he said softly. "I was rather enjoying watching you sleep by the light of the fire. There's something indescribably lovely about a woman who looks utterly satisfied." He traced the curve of her smile, then handed her a plate. As the scent of the aromatic food hit her nose she suddenly realised she was famished, and felt as if she stuffed her face to bursting with curried chicken and naan. 

Feeling quite gluttonous and very aware of his eyes still on her, she swallowed and smiled. He looked utterly amused. "This is delicious," she said by way of explanation. He had blessedly remembered to ask for the spice to be milder than was usual but even still she was glad for the lassi to cool the residual burn.

"I completely agree. Of course," he continued impishly, "with the appetite we've worked up, anything would taste good right now." She could not help but flush with colour. He offered her a pleased smile, bringing another forkful of food to his own mouth.

Shortly after finishing their dinner, she prodded, "Open your present."

"Yes, ma'am." He took the box and carefully slid a fingernail beneath the sellotape to break it. He did this on every strip, on every seam.

Anxiously, she said, "Come on, Mark—just rip it off."

He looked to her as if she had just asked him to tear the head off of a kitten. "That's barbaric," he said, a hint of playfulness in his voice.

He slipped the paper off neatly and all in one piece—rather freakish, she thought, but endearing—and opened the box top. He smiled, and she could tell it was more than just a polite 'I'm humouring you because you're my girlfriend' smile.

He held up his gift: a robe of thick brown chenille and a matching pair of slippers.

"For you to wear when you're here," she explained.

He looked incredibly touched, his brown eyes glossing over slightly. "Thank you, Bridget. They're very nice indeed." He reached and kissed her. As he pulled back slightly her eyes met his again, and before she knew it, he was ardently kissing her again, encouraging her to lie back on the heap of pillows.

She idly wondered if it was still too soon after dinner.

………

_Thurs 15 Feb_

She didn't pay attention to how many times the CD looped, nor did she know what time it was when they finally headed for bed, nor the time after that when they eventually drifted off to sleep. All she did know when she woke the next morning, seeing him sleeping contentedly beside her, was that she dearly hoped the next gift he gave to her was a diamond.

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> The CD mentioned in this story is ["Windham Hill: Romantics - Romantic Music of the 19th Century"](http://www.amazon.com/Windham-Hill-Romantics-Romantic-Century/dp/B000000NKX/sr=1-3/qid=1170710848/ref=sr_1_3/103-1075497-1110205?ie=UTF8&s=music). I have this CD and I love it. I have no idea if it was actually ever available in the UK on the shelves, but let's pretend that Mark's a crafty guy with excellent eBay-Fu.
> 
> Also: Bridget's gift to Mark is supposed to be the robe and slippers he's wearing in [that very brief scene in _EOR_](http://bridgetarchive.altervista.org/_altervista_ht/teor_preview032.jpg)—I can't tell what the fabric actually is, but chenille is as good as any.


End file.
